Not just any materialist, but a DAMNED GOOD materialist. I don’t cut corners. You want corners cut? You want someone to take your corners and snip them off with a pair of left-handed scissors (YES, I AM LEFT-HANDED…GO AHEAD AND POUR OUT YOUR BUCKETS OF VITRIOL…. I AM NOT ASHAMED AND I AM NOT AFRAID). But seriously, you want to cut my corners?

Well how about you go find a corner-cutter because I’m not about to cut any corners. Not on being a materialist.

When did I first become a materialist?

I started very early, in fact. I was three or maybe four.

No, I was three and five-sixteenths. Let’s be specific. It was the afternoon of June 20th and my mother came into my play space as I was organizing my alphabet blocks in ascending order according to their numerical value. (I’ve always been very interested in quantity.) She kneels down and takes my face in her hands and says, “Oh my little developing off-spring! (This was a long time ago and I’m taking a guess at what sort of pet-name she had given me.) I love you so much.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I said, placing a small, unmarked rectangular block to mark the spot I was at so that I would not lose my place. “Where is this ‘love’?” She looked confused. I extrapolated. “You say that you ‘love’ me, but what form does this take? Is this a chemical reaction? Are you experiencing a chemical reaction right now?” She looked confused. “And you say ‘so much’. What exactly does that mean? Can you give an educated estimate of ‘so much’?”

My mother was confused. Then, my father came into the room. First, he checked his watch (as I still do now) to ensure that he would spend the allotted two minutes with me in the morning. (He had a very tight schedule, spending the necessary amount of time with my mother and I, respectively, so that we both received an equal 10 hours a week of affection. He was a good man.)

He kneeled down and what he said to me has never left me.

“Good morning, my biologically male offspring. As I look at you now, serotonin rushes through the emotional regions of my brain and I am experiencing what is described as ‘affection’. Of course, this is only the reaction of electrical impulses with neurological fluids that cause my body to react in such a way. Normally, I am much more composed. It is correct and accurate to say that I am having a serotonin-induced affective disorder right now.” Then, he set his watch to ensure that the remaining two minutes would be uninterrupted as he stared into my eyes. At the end of the day, he provided me with a print-out measuring the increase in serotonin during the period of in the day spent with me in order to empirically prove his love for me.

You can’t beat an upbringing like that. Ever since that moment, I have been a dyed-in-the-wool materialist.

As a materialist, you always have to be on your guard against people trying to convince you otherwise. Once, a female student in University developed the high-levels of chemical attraction when in each other’s presence. She and I shared commonalities, you understand. We were both interested in left-handed rights and washed our hands after waving to homeless people. Of course, this is just one of many activities that will inevitably lead to an overabundance of oxytocin, but it was nothing to worry about. However, when she placed her lips on mine and said that she “loved me”, I gently pushed her away.

“Let’s not confuse things. We share many things in common. We’re both healthy. We’re majoring in business which means that we’ll both have stable careers according to the most recent statistics released by The Heritage Foundation. A recent CBS poll found that people in our age group attending Northwestern University, focusing in our exact areas of study, will have very successful careers. In fact, I took the liberty of researching both of our genealogical histories, searching for idiosyncrasies such as rickets or diabetes or multiple sclerosis or cancer or lymph node disorder or cankers or lazy-eye disease or syphilis and found nothing. We are perfect mates. Therefore, let’s not get things confused with silly metaphors such as “love”, which has little to no data-driven research to back it up. We should just go home and have sex right now.”

She laughed. Another good oxytocin-inducing mechanism. “I love your eyes,” she said.

I chuckled. “As you might note in an article in the January 9th, 2015 edition of the New York Times by Mandy Len Carton, eyes are a ‘bundle of useful cells’ and staring in them for at least four minutes increasing the production of pheromones according to a May 15th, 1987 article in Scientific American by Donald Fisk,” I said quickly bringing up my smartphone with the article pulled up on my Kindle app, which I had prepared beforehand.

She did not understand. Unfortunately for our genetic pools, we did not mate.

It can be a difficult life for materialists. After my father’s biological functions failed and the bacteria within his body rapidly began consuming his internal organs, muscles, flesh, etc. (as they do to this day), only my mother remained. She has difficulty communicating with me. When she says “Goodbye” to me, I hear her about to utter the word “love”, but she quickly catches herself.

“My serotonin… ahem…” she says, “increases as I bid you farewell.” I smile.

“Mother, let’s hug, allowing ourselves the chance to smell each other and be comforted by the similarity of the scents exuded by our particular biological constituents.” She nods, tears in her eyes and mouth taut. We spend a total of two hours a week together. Considering my responsibilities at work and my tireless mate-seeking, this is far and above the national average.

Finding a mate is difficult. Women are off-turned by the checklist, the questionnaire. Therefore, I no longer pull it out on the first date. I have recently acquired an app that allows me to surreptitiously scan the human body to determine any pathogens or biological idiosyncrasies adverse to my own.

It helps with deciding whether I want to pick up the tab or commit a financial investment for a future copulative endeavor.

As it often happens, the perfects specimens are exactly the ones who are not interested in me.

Last week, I asked about singles at the monthly Lefties For Liberty meeting at the YMCA. I suggested posting an information sheet on the message board where people could list links to their most recent physical exam as well as a family tree for anyone interested in pursuing genealogical research, but my suggestion was tabled.

This is the fourth time it has been tabled. The Pew Research Center demonstrated in a 1993 study released the following year that in groups run according to traditional parliamentary procedure a motion tabled more than three times has a 73.4% likelihood of never being considered.

So, it appears that I should try other methods.

I have downloaded an app named, “Leftist Couples,” but the hygiene and morals of these women I have found atrocious.

Many of them have dreadlocks, which would be fine BUT they are genealogically-traceable to the Anglo-Saxon tribes of Europe. When I try to explain the Center for Disease Control’s 1957 study of the dreadlocked hair of individuals of Anglo-Saxon origin and the 96% likelihood of epidermal parasites to them, they regard me with a dumb, bovine stare. It increases as I read off the data-driven research of one Donald Fisk (of the aforementioned 1987 article, you will have already noted). The rest of the date, as you can imagine, is a wash-out.

These women don’t like hearing material facts. They like playing the tablas and listening to Ani DiFranco albums. (“Not her new ones where she has sold out,” they always clarify, “but the older ones when she was still a lesbian.”) They like eastern religions, but I find that it’s not even worth it to attempt to have a material discussion about invisible deities. Despite the fact that I have downloaded several useful articles demonstrating that cosmic electrical currents traceable to the Big Bang are, in 97% likelihood, behind 67% of recording “experiences” of God by peoples of variegated religious experiences (according to data collected by a 1982 joint-study of the Harvard University Religious Studies Department and MIT’s Cosmology Department). Some women, have in fact, pointed out that my reliance on data is dangerous because of the potential for manipulation through intentional misinterpretation of the data.

But where are the papers on this, I ask you?!

Well, I’m not letting it get to me. Time’s on my side and science proves it. For me, the logical nature of mating now is still very probable, you see. I am only thirty-seven. Still in excellent mental and physical health. I will produce sperm, of course, until my bodily functions cease. Recently, I discovered that I have a possible distant genetic stream that traces to the Carpathians. Therefore, I have contacted a website to arrange for a Romanian wife to be sent to me. I have e-mailed them my genetic information and am awaiting their reply.

This is a new step for me. I am very excited. Most of all about the fact that I asked them to make sure she is a lefty and the organization promised that she was as left as they can possibly get. In fact, she can’t wait to get out of Romania and into the United States, which (in a letter she sent to me through a large accented-man in a gray overcoat) asked that I not tell anyone that she’s coming. That there are big surprises awaiting all of “my people.” (A colloquial term that I don’t quite understand.)

Recently, she somehow attained my e-mail and asked me if I am anywhere near New York City.

When I told her that I was, she said that she would be on the next flight. She also asked me to buy a white van.

I can’t wait! Wish me luck!

————

Nick Hilbourn now owns eleven Apple iPads. He lives in the Lower East Side and writes haikus for Yaffa Café. His favorite food is biscuits.